


Valentine's Day Sucks (But Only if You're Single)

by Anonymous



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Marijuana, Mildly Dubious Consent, One Shot, Other, Recreational Drug Use, Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Sans (Undertale), Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29067621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: You've always told yourself you hated Valentine's Day. It has nothing do with being single. Perpetually single. Or wishing you had a special someone to spend Valentine's Day with. It was none of that. But then your best friend Stretch invites you over for an "Anti-Valentine's Day" celebration that turns everything you've ever told yourself on its head. (Nonbinary reader X Underswap Papyrus one-shot).
Relationships: Papyrus (Undertale)/Reader, Swap Papyrus/Reader, US!Papyrus/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 44
Collections: Undertale





	Valentine's Day Sucks (But Only if You're Single)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. This is my first fanfiction in a few years, and my first reader-POV story, so forgive me if I'm a bit rusty. Just a warning that there will be drug use in this fic, and explicit sexual content while high on edibles. If that makes you uncomfortable, turn back now! If you wish to proceed, I hope you enjoy. I decided to make the reader nonbinary because I NEVER see it and I am starving.

The only good thing about Valentine’s Day was the discounted chocolate. That’s what you told yourself as you left the Walgreens with a few heart-shaped boxes in hand. 

It wasn’t that you had anything against the idea of a holiday dedicated to love. Far from it. But the sickly-sweet décor and trappings gave all the romance an aftertaste of plastic and those chalky little heart candies. And in February, too. The grey death cry of winter given a chocolate coating. It always left you in a sour mood.

And it wasn’t that you were perpetually single. Or that you had been single for almost every Valentine’s Day since you were born. Or that you had a specific someone in mind that you really wanted to spend the holiday with.

You walk past a bakery’s chalk display board: “Get a honeybun for your honey! Two for the price of one this Valentine’s Day!” Suddenly you decide it might be time to pick up your pace.

The wind picks up and seems to shoot through your skin, icy arrows shot directly into your bones. It also whips up your fresh pixie cut into a little blond tumbleweed. You snuggle deeper into your trench coat. Quicken your pace. The sooner you get home, tucked in a blanket burrito with your chocolate and Netflix, the better.

_Buzz._

You stop. Reach down into your gigantic pocket for your phone. The little orange heart emoji next to the contact name is unmistakable. You bite back a smile and chew on your bottom lip.

Stretch texted you. On Valentine’s Day. Holy shit.

Okay. Okay. Don’t get excited. It’s probably not what you’re thinking. He doesn’t even… just read it. You’ll only disappoint yourself if you speculate.

_hey, you busy? i was wonderin’ if you wanted to hang?_

“Holy shit,” you say, your voice squeaking just a little under its own excitement.

You quickly check your reflection in the nearest window. Smooth out your hair after the wind did its worst. Make sure there are no zits or melted chocolate on your face. You look fine. Not great, but fine. You text back an affirmative and make a quick turn to walk towards his complex.

_

It’s not a long walk, thankfully. He lives close to downtown so it’s never a huge chore to get groceries. You knock and Stretch answers moments later. An orange hoodie hangs over his bones. A cigarette dangles from his teeth.

“Heya,” you greet.

He leans against the doorframe. “Heya, how’s my bee? Those for me?” he asks, pointing to boxes of chocolate under your arm. Crap.

“Oh! Those. Um. I didn’t… they were on sale. Can’t pass up the opportunity to get a cheap sugar fix, you know?”

“That is a pretty _sweet_ deal. Hope you don’t mind sharing.”

You snort. “And what do I get in return? I’m cheap, not free.”

Stretch takes a drag off his cigarette. Taps it. The ashes trinkle down onto the floor. “You share those, I share the special brownies I got baking.”

“Sold,” you say, and hand him two boxes, half your purchase. You were going to share anyways, just like Stretch was going to share his brownies, but this little game you played with each other was part of what made your friendship so fun.

He steps inside. “Right this way, m’theydy.”

“Oh God, please never say that again,” you reply as you follow him inside. His apartment is small, warm, familiar. It smells of weed, lingering cigarettes, and strangely of vanilla-scented air freshener.

“What? I’m just trying to be a gentleman.”

You slip your trench coat off. Silently you wish you’d worn something cuter than black leggings and an oversized lavender sweater. “If I see you in a fedora, I’m blocking your number.”

He laughs. It’s a calm, easy laugh, the kind that tells you he knows your threats are hollow. He plops down on the couch and you take a seat beside him. Looking around the place, you notice it seems… tidier than usual. No socks on the floor. The carpet is vacuumed. Everything has been dusted. Did he clean the place for you?

No. No, that can’t be it. Blue must’ve nagged him. Or cleaned up himself. “Hey, where’s your bro?”

Suddenly Stretch tenses. Maybe it’s your imagination, but there seems to be the faintest hint of a glow to his cheeks. “Blue’s, uh, out getting Valentine’s cards for everyone. And hand-delivering them. Y’know how he is.”

“Aww, he’s a sweetheart.”

“Yep, speaking of,” he opens one of the heart-shaped boxes and scoops up a mouthful of chocolates. You used to wonder how skeletons ate food, and maybe stared trying to figure it out a few times, but now it’s as ordinary as any other guy stuffing his face.

“So, we have the place to ourselves for the day? Because if he knew the kind of brownies you were baking right now, I think he’d kill you.”

“S’right,” he garbles with his nonexistent cheeks stuffed. Molten chocolate and caramel drip down one side of his teeth. “I’d be boned.”

“Ew, Stretch. Did your mama never teach you manners?”

“Gotta have a mama to teach ya, right?”

Oh. Right. Blue and Stretch never seemed to talk about their parents, but you got the impression that they weren’t around very much. Even after knowing them for two years, you never felt comfortable asking.

“Still, don’t pun with your mouth full.”

He swallows. “You’re right, bee, if my mouth’s full, talking’s a real _stretch_. A shame if you can’t hear my punderful humor.” 

“…On second thought, eat more.”

He laughs again, louder, his head tilted back. That’s how you know it’s a real one, and you cherish it. Not that he had a hard time laughing or anything. But catching him off-guard like that was a real treat. You smile.

Suddenly, his eyes in all their warm honey glow catch you, and you’re too slow on the draw to look away. “What’s that look for?” he asks.

“Uh, what am I supposed to look at, the wall?”

“Are you saying I’m eye candy?” he pops another chocolate into his mouth and winks.

If there had been a microphone in your brain, he would hear the sizzle and crackle of a short circuit. Is he flirting? Oh God, is he really flirting? How should you respond?

He shifts on the couch. “Heh. Don’t look so stunned, kid. I’m just jokin’ with ya.”

Oh. Right. Of course.

“I know.” You curl up on yourself a little. “So, uh, why’d you invite me over today anyways?”

“Do I need a reason to hang with you?”

“No, I just. Why, you know, today?”

A shrug. “Call it an anti-Valentine’s Day. Figured we’d be both be lonely and single anyways. Am I right?”

“You know you are,” you say. Don’t sound disappointed. Don’t sound disappointed.

Inevitably, disappointment seeps into your voice. Stretch’s browbone knots a little. You can already feel the corner of your mouth twitching. What was the antithesis of a poker face?

A timer goes off. “Now we’re talking. Brownies are done,” Stretch says.

He stands and disappears into the kitchen. You take the moment alone to slump in your seat and let out a groan that dissolves under the timer’s high beep, unnoticed. Thank god it went off right then. Sometimes it seemed only dumb luck saved you from giving yourself away. God knows how Stretch hadn’t caught on by now.

“Fucking idiot,” you curse. Of course, that’s what he invited you over for.

“You rang?”

With a start, you sit up. Stretch is standing there with two plates of fresh pot brownies. “No! You’re not… I was talking to…” you can’t finish. He doesn’t need you to.

“Give ‘em a few minutes. Still hot,” he says as he sets your plate in front of you. He sits back down, a little closer to you this time. “So, what’s goin’ on bee? What’re you beatin’ yourself up for? You know I won’t stand for anyone bullying my friends.”

“It’s nothing.”

“C’mon, don’t lie. I got a gut feeling something’s wrong.”

“You don’t have guts.”

“Exactly. That’s how I know it’s serious.”

God damn it. You snort. “Stretch, come on.”

“Ah, see, there’s a smile. So, what’s up?”

“I guess I just let today get to me. I get sick of being lonely and single, you know?”

He nods, understanding. “Me too. That’s why I wanted to spend today with ya. I thought it might help the both of us.”

“Yeah,” you say, half-heartedly. Maybe it would’ve helped. If he wasn’t the problem.

Stretch puts an arm over your shoulder and squeezes. You resist the urge to lean in and snuggle against him. “Any guy who wouldn’t be into you is a real bonehead. You’ll find someone.”

“Thanks, Stretch.”

“No problem.” His arm falls away. “In the meantime, let’s chow down. I got a whole bunch of Hallmark movies for us to make fun of.”

He knew your weakness. Bad movies always made you feel better. “I’m in.”

You each pick up a brownie. Stretch raises his as if to toast. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” you reply, and clank your brownies together. Crumbs topple in the space between you.

_

It normally takes about an hour for brownies to hit, but you’re already feeling it after thirty minutes. The world seems to go in slow motion around you. You’re suspended in molasses. Your brain is swimming in static. You’re aware of your soul within your skin, moving you like a puppet of flesh and bone. Wiggling your fingers is a fascinating exercise.

“Christ, Stretch, how strong did you make these fuckers?” you ask. Words stick like glue to your tongue and come out with a strange echo.

Beside you, Stretch is smiling to himself and swaying in place. “Gotta get high enough to float away from all this lovey-dovey shit.”

The hilarity of his words topples you on your side. A cackle spills onto the carpet and ripples out. Suddenly you have the urge to sing Lily Allen’s “Air Balloon.”

Stretch has no right being that funny. You poke him in the femur with your foot. “Shut up. I’m serious.”

“Hi serious, I’m daddy.”

“I will walk out that door.”

“Not while you’re high you’re not. You’re stuck here with me till you’re sober. Which means you’ll have to put up with all my hilarious jokes.”

“Oh no, what a predicament, my bones are so rattled,” you say, throwing your arm over your face with dramatic flair.

Now it’s Stretch’s turn to laugh. And not a light, easy laugh. He topples to the other side and holds his ribs while he cackles. “How can you even tell? Your bones are wrapped in a meat suit.” 

“Fine. My meat suit is quivering, then.”

“Ugh. Never say that again.”

“See! Now you know how it feels.”

“But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”

“Then prepare to hear an awful lot about my quivering meat suit.”

The face he makes is indescribable. You snicker and snuggle into the couch, satisfied in your victory. Things settle down and go quiet for a while. A Hallmark Christmas movie is vaguely playing in the background. You’re more interested in the couch beneath you. It’s soft, and when you rub your hand across it, it leaves a dark imprint.

You glance over at Stretch. Whatever he’s paying attention to, it isn’t visible to human eyes. With your index finger you draw a little heart on the couch cushion.

When was it you started feeling something for him? Maybe it was he took care of you after top surgery. Staying by your side, stripping your drains, being your arms for a few weeks. Or maybe it was earlier. That time he took you out for drinks after getting your legal name change. Or maybe it was when he went shopping with you and your mom that time she came to visit. And they got along. A little too well. All three of you got a lifetime ban from Spencer’s.

But if you had to hazard a guess, it was the time he texted you in the middle of the night because his depression was getting the better of him. Stretch was kind, but never vulnerable. If he had a problem, he’d cover it in honey drizzle and swallow it with a bad pun. So, when you got a text asking to talk, it was nothing short of shocking. You immediately called, and when you picked up, it was obvious he’d been crying.

You were at his front door twenty minutes later. He hugged you for another twenty. That moment you knew he trusted you as much as you trusted him. That if he needed someone, he’d come to _you_. And if you needed someone, you came to _him._

Now if only you had the guts to… say something…

“Hey now, don’t doze off. We’ve barely gotten through one movie.”

“Sorry. Y’know I get sleepy when I’m high.”

“But s’no fun watching crappy movies without you. How’s about I put on something lively? Something to keep your attention.”

“Think you can find something to keep me interested?”

“Challenge accepted, kid. Hold on.” Stretch sways as he stands and wobbles over to the DVD case under the television. He searches through for a couple minutes, mumbling to himself, then lights up. “Horror movies would fit our little anti-Valentine’s day theme better. Wanna watch Cabin in the Woods?”

You perk up. “You have that?”

“See, I knew it’d get you up. This is your favorite, right?”

“It is up there. Fine, you win.”

He chuckles, puts the movie on, and sits back down. It keeps your attention. At first. Seeing Shaggy and Thor in the same scene never, ever got old. But after a few minutes, right as the group starts on their doomed journey, you start to doze again. An eyelid flops down against your will. But when you open it, the other falls in its place. The static sloshing around in your brain seeps deeper and deeper into the sulci.

Suddenly you’re much warmer than before, and you feel the weight of another body near yours. Stretch is leaning over you as he tucks a blanket around you. You look up and smile. His face is hovering a few inches above yours.

“I thought you were tryin’ to keep me up.”

“Eh, If Cabin in the Woods ain’t doing the trick, it’s a losing battle.”

“So, you’re gonna finish the movie without me?” you ask in a huff.

“You’ll still be here.”

“But I’d be asleep.”

“That’s the name of the game.”

“I don’t wanna sleep while you have all the fun.”

“What do ya want, then?”

Maybe it was the haze of sleep, maybe it was the static, or maybe it was because he was so close. Whatever it was, you said exactly what you wanted. “I wanna snuggle.”

“You look pretty snuggled up already, kid.”

“With you, numbskull.”

His sockets went wide. The honey lights inside pinpricked. “Huh?”

Wait. What did you just say? 

Somehow this brought you back to the surface of reality. At least enough to understand what just came out of your mouth. Oh boy.

“You want to snuggle with me?” he repeated.

Um. Crap. Well, you already showed your hand, might as well go for broke. You wrestle one hand from under the blanket and reach towards him, opening and closing your fingers in a grabbing motion.

He continues to stare in shock. Neither of you move.

Your face is burning with a flush. Mistake. Big mistake. Done goofed. Shit. In a shy retreat you pull your arm back, curl up on your side, and squeeze your eyes shut. Maybe he’d blame that little request on the brownies and pretend this never happened.

Then you feel the couch cushion depress next to you. A bony arm slips around your waist. Long legs tuck into the curves of yours. You’re little more than a teddy bear in his arms. It’s oddly pleasant. He pulls the blanket over himself so that you’re both under it.

“This, um, okay?” he asks.

You snuggle deeper into him in response. It goes quiet again, and the movie plays on. Now you’re much more awake. In fact, you’re pretty blissed out. There’s a goofball grin glued to your face.

“Y’know I always wanted that coffee bong,” Stretch says, suddenly.

Snort. “You would.”

“Can you blame me? It’d keep Blue off my back.”

“Until he catches you huffing on your coffee mug.”

“If he catches me, you mean.”

“No, I mean when,” you reply.

He laughs. Your grin gets wider. What had you been so worried about? You fell back into your usual dynamic so easily. Delight radiates from your chest outwards. You do a little happy wiggle in his arms, and your butt presses against something. Something softer than bone, but more solid than the cushions. There’s a low hiss and a lower “oh, fuck” near your ear.

Instantly, you freeze. Glance up. Stretch’s eyes are glued to the screen, but his face is visibly flushed. His whole body is rigid. Even as high as you are, it isn’t a difficult task to solve this puzzle. Your breathing speeds up.

Is he like that just because you’re cuddling? Is it a natural reaction like it is for human guys, or does it work differently for monsters? Does he want you to ignore it? You aren’t sure, but you decide that if he isn’t making a move, you won’t either. You look back at the movie and try to pretend that you didn’t just grind against your best friend’s hard-on.

_“Can’t get you out of my head…”_

Oh. Joy. The truth or dare scene.

_“Think about you while I’m lying in bed…”_

So much for a horror movie fitting better with your Anti-Valentine’s Day celebration. You gulp and glance up at Stretch again. He’s still staring at the television but you’re pretty sure he knows you’re looking.

Well, you couldn’t just ignore the tension and hope it went away. Feeling brave, you start making little circles over the back of his hand with your fingertips. Stretch is jolted into the moment and you feel his eyes on you. But now you’re the one who can’t bear to meet his gaze. You slide your fingers around his wrist bones, guide them to the hem of your leggings, and pull away.

“Bee?”

Your face is on fire. You bury it in the couch cushion.

His fingertips dip into your leggings and slide along the hemline of your panties. Suddenly his breath is tickling your ear. “Tell me if you like this.”

Bones sweep through the little thicket between your legs. Fingertips searching, caressing, prodding, and fumbling until they find a spot that gives. A gasp winds down your throat. He stops.

“I- I like that,” you manage to say.

It’s a little difficult with the fabric in the way, but he manages to find a steady beat of curling and uncurling his fingers inside you. Your body takes them eagerly, wet for him before he even touched you, much to your embarrassment.

Besides the unmistakable squishing noise coming from under the blanket, and the occasional soft moan, it’s quiet between you. Stretch leans over you and kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your neck. Sensations echo through your whole body, like all your nerve endings are in sync. You twist your head to kiss him. Craning your neck hurts. You lie on your back. This arrangement is better for everyone, but it means you can see his face better. It’s too much. You shut your eyes to him.

Your hips arch and roll to meet his fingers. The longer he goes, the higher your hips lift. But his movements are still restricted. It’s frustrating. The aching, longing need inside you grows into a hunger, ravenous and unsatisfied. You shimmy your leggings and underwear down to your knees for better access. The blanket is the only veil of feigned modesty.

Stretch bends down and kisses you. Well, kisses you the way a monster without lips can kiss. Teeth press to your mouth. His free hand caresses the side of your face as his tongue dips between your lips. Without a second thought you open for him. It’s mesmerizing how smooth it is.

“Oh!” You cry. His thumb is making little circles over your clit. Pleasure like lightning bolts shoot up through your nervous system. You’re pressing into his hand as much as you can. But it’s not enough. Never enough. “Oh, please…”

“Please what?”

His middle finger finds a spot inside you that reduces you to whimpers. Is it possible to have an orgasm so powerful that you astral project? Because it feels like your soul is lifting from your body. “Please, Papyrus…”

He stops. You never used his real name. He was always Stretch, just as you were always bee, or kid. “…Yes?” he whispers.

“I want you.” 

The pause is infinite. He pulls his fingers from you. “You sure?”

“Please.”

He shifts to where he’s on top of you. Your hands, greedy to know every inch of him, snake under the hoodie and rake along his ribs. The choked gasp from him makes you weak.

“F-Fuck, bee.”

“That’s the idea,” you reply.

“Oh my God.” _Zip._ Fabric rustles as he pulls his khakis down. There’s an orange glow behind your eyelids. “Wait. I uh, shit, I don’t think I have a condom.”

“Stretch, you know I got my tubes tied. And I thought humans and monsters couldn’t catch stuff from each other?”

“I know, I know, but still.”

“I trust you,” you say, your voice soft.

“You do?”

“More than anyone.” And the minute you say it, you know you mean it. Well, except maybe your mom. But this really wasn’t the time for semantics.

A pause. “Then why don’t you look at me?”

“It’s just…” you aren’t sure how to answer. The brownies filtered every sensation through an amplifier. Every emotion. Looking at him was gazing into the blaze of the orange sun. The minute you did, your heart burst into flames. You feared it would consume you. “I can’t.”

“Please.”

It was a soft, pleading request, so unlike him. To say no would be impossible.

You gulp. And open your eyes. Stretch is staring into you. How deep can he see? You want so much to close your eyes again and hide everything your gaze gives away.

He never takes his eyes off yours as his hands slide down your thighs. They coax your legs wider apart so he can slide between them. Slowly he lowers himself to where his body is flush to yours. Bony fingers caress your cheek. In one quick motion he adjusts himself and slips into you.

“Oh!” you cry and squeeze your eyes shut. It’s so big you can barely take it all.

“Please honeybee, look at me. I want you to look at me.”

Honeybee?

You look at him. The warmth in his eyes overwhelms you. He begins moving. Slowly. Sweetly. In, hold, and out. Like breathing. Your moans and gasps blend into one another.

One hand slips under your sweater. Fingertips caress the raised pink flesh of your top surgery scars. By some measure of luck, you were one of the few who regained sensation in their nipples after they healed, and when he rolls one under his thumb, it shoots sparks through your chest. Every touch is soft, light. It melts you. You’ve never had sex like this before.

“I never imagined you’d be so gentle…” you say.

“You imagined?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Me too,” he says. 

It’s like he turned the dial on your pleasure all the way to its breaking point. You crooned and quivered under him. He must’ve liked this response because his eyes widen and drink in your expression. His movements are still slow and steady, but you can sense urgency in his eyes. An urgency you’re feeling as well. Your gasps get more desperate and pleading.

“F-fuck,” he groans. His thrusts come with more force. His fingers entwine with yours. “Please. Can I… inside?”

Oh. Oh yes. “Please.”

His movements are erratic. With a final thrust he spills deep, deep into you. Your own orgasm comes like deep gulps of water after walking across the desert. You drink pleasure up and let it ripple across your nerve endings. You bunch your fists into his hoodie until it’s over.

Stretch all but collapses on top of you. “Holy shit. Honeybee.”

“Stretch.”

“Thank you,” he whispers. He peppers your neck with kisses and lays beside you. Scoops you up. The movie plays on. It’s not long before you’re both washed away into sleep.

_

When you wake up, you’re alone and tucked in with a pillow under your head. At the end of the couch are your leggings and panties, neatly folded. Morning light seeps in through the front window. The television is off.

“Geez, how long was I out?” you ask as you sit up.

“About twelve hours,” Blue answers.

You snap your head over towards the sound of his voice. He’s dressed and bright-eyed as usual. The only early riser in the place. “Oh, good morning, Blue. When did you…?”

“I returned last night after dinner out with my friends. You’re quite the heavy sleeper, you know.”

“I bet I was,” you mumble. The high of last night has dulled to a manageable fuzziness around the edges of reality. Coherent enough to function, but you probably wouldn’t drive. It’d be a couple hours before you were totally sober. You notice the plate of brownies is missing. “Blue, um. Was I… alone?”

“Of course not! My brother was cleaning up around you. Surprisingly.”

“Oh.” So, he didn’t stay the night with you.

“Why do you ask?”

Lie, quick. Blue wasn’t innocent, but you didn’t exactly want him knowing his brother snuggle-fucked you on the couch. And he probably didn’t want to know that either. “No reason. Do you know where he is now?”

He points to the front door. “In the courtyard indulging in that gross habit of his.”

“Thanks.” You grab your leggings and panties from the couch end and wriggle them on under the blanket. You still feel his spend oozing out of you. Oh God, you hoped it didn’t get all over the couch. “So, you made Valentine’s for everyone?”

“Yep. Which reminds me,” he fishes through his jacket pocket and hands you a little heart-shaped card. “Here’s yours!”

“Aww thanks, Blue. Sorry I don’t have anything in return. I think Stretch ate all my chocolate.”

“Well, can I get a hug?”

“Of course.”

You stand (sure to hide the wet spot with the blanket) and give Blue a friendly hug. He’s the only person that _you_ have to bend down to reach. It’s a special kind of powerful.

You put on your trench coat, slip the card into its pocket, and walk out to the courtyard. Stretch is sitting on a bench in the center of the concrete oasis, hunched over. His cigarette dangles limply between his fingers.

This didn’t strike you as a good sign.

Though you don’t notice, your heels drag against the concrete as you walk towards him. The scraping alerts him and he perks his head up. The memories of last night make it impossible for you to look him in the eye again, so you pretend your feet are very interesting.

You stop.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

This was weird. No jokes, no jabs, no banter. Just pure awkward silence on the chilly morning air.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks.

“Good. Really good. Blue said I was out for twelve hours.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

“You could’ve gotten me up.”

“Didn’t wanna interrupt ya. Looked like you were pretty wiped.”

You scratch the back of your neck. “I mean, yeah. You’re kind of responsible for that.”

“Heh.”

You dare to look up, just a little. Stretch is fiddling with his cigarette. “About last night. It was… unexpected.”

“Yeah.” A pause. You’d never seen him so uncomfortable. Struggling for words. Looked like he was debating what to say. “But like you said, we’re both single and lonely. And we weren’t thinking straight. Sometimes these things just, y’know, happen.”

Oh. Single and lonely. That’s all it was. You were very glad you weren’t looking at him because your eyes were already stinging with tears. “I guess so.”

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal if you don’t want,” he says. Sounds like he’s almost trying to comfort you. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

Another pause. “So. How’s about you go back inside. After I finish my cig’ I’ll cook up some pancakes. Then I’ll walk you home. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Seeya in a few, kid.”

You turn around. It was fine. This was fine. He hooked up with you because you were both high. It happens. You’ll be awkward for a few days and then move on. It’s no big deal. That’s what you tell yourself as you step back into the apartment. Blue is waiting for you inside.

“What’s my brother… uh, you okay? What’s that look about?”

“I’m fine,” you say, and immediately burst into tears.

“Oh no.”

Blue tries to rush up and comfort you, but you’re already speeding down the side hallway and into the guest bathroom. You lock the door, lean against it, and slide down into a sniffling heap.

Of course, it was just a hook-up for him. A mistake. A product of loneliness. Valentine’s Day depression sex.

Oh, God, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. There’s no metaphor or turn of phrase for it. It’s just pure, raw pain. You can barely keep your sobs from descending into wails.

Every memory you cherished. Every confession hidden behind laughter. Even last night. You’d light it all on fire if it meant not feeling like this.

There’s a gentle knock. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing, Blue, I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not! Did Papyrus do this? Did he make you cry?”

“No, Blue. It’s not his fault. I’m just… I’m just stupid.”

“Stupid? What? Did he say that to you?”

“No! I just… I don’t want to talk about it. Please, can you just keep guard and let me know when he starts heading back in? I don’t want him to see me like this. I’d really appreciate it.”

A pause. “If that’s what you need.”

“It is.”

You hear his footsteps as they get softer and softer. Part of you knew he was not going to stand guard. You knew he was in fact storming down the steps to chew Stretch out this very instant. But you didn’t really care. You didn’t have the energy to care. You were too focused on nursing the pain into a manageable, dull throb. It barely even registered when the front door burst open.

“Fucking _idiot_ ,” you said.

A knock. A sigh. “You rang?”

“Not for you.”

“No, definitely for me,” he said. The door creaks as he leans against it. “Bee, I…”

“Please don’t. Just don’t. I promise we can talk later, just now isn’t it. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

“Think I beat you to that prize, kid.”

“I’d rather you be honest than try to spare my feelings. I’ll get over it.”

“No, bee, you don’t.” Sigh. “Christ, I’m not good at this. You’re misunderstanding.”

“What’s there to misunderstand?”

There’s a stretch of silence. When his voice floats through the door, it’s almost a mumble. “I thought you regretted it.”

What?

“What? Why would you think that? Just because _you_ regret it…”

“But I don’t!” he interrupts.

You’re struggling to put this together. This would be so much easier if you were completely sober. “Okay, you’re right, I don’t understand.”

Something hits the other side of the door. Probably his skull. “I figured there’s plenty of good-lookin’ humans out there. Why would you want me unless you were, you know, out of other options?”

Oh. Wait. Wait. You take a minute to process what he said. The pain in your chest is starting to fade, soothed by a balm of hope. You try to tamper it before you get carried away. “Why would you think that about yourself?’

“C’mon, bee, besides my bro you know me better than anyone. We’re both pretty aware of my shortcomings. Lazy, indulgent, childish, not overly ambitious.”

A snort. “And what am I, a saint?”

“You’re strong. Funny. Cute. Sweet.”

“And you’re not?” you reply before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t respond. The hope in your chest nudges you into continuing. “You’re a good guy. That’s the important part. You have a good heart. You care about your family, your friends. You’re always ready to make someone laugh. I, uh, think you’re pretty great, Papyrus.”

“I think you’re pretty great too.”

Well, if you’re spilling your guts, might as well go for broke. “Stretch?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Time slows to a crawl as you wait for him to say something. Was that too strong? Did you mess this up? “Open the door.”

Gulp. Your knees hurt from being bent and curled for so long, and you wobble as you stand.

Deep breath. You open the door. Stretch immediately pulls you into a hug. His arms are like an iron vice wrapped in cotton.

“I love you too.” The tears start again, but this time there’s no pain behind them. Stretch sways in place, rocking you in his arms. “Sorry about making ya cry, honeybee. I gotta get better at this communication thing. Nearly lost you a day after winnin’ you.”

“It’s alright.” Suddenly, a thought occurs. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“Does this mean our anniversary is gonna be Valentine’s Day?”

Silence. “Shit. I think it is.”

“Real shame. We can’t bitch about it being a dumb holiday anymore.”

Stretch ruffles your hair. “Eh. I’m not that bothered.”

“Me either,” you say, smiling. In fact, you’re actually looking forward to it next year. And hopefully every year after that.


End file.
